When my youngest was in HS we moved to the house we now live in. He wanted his bedroom blue and I was given the task to bring home color chips. I fell in love with one in the Disney section. The color was gorgeous and the name cracked me up. When I brought the chips home to the kid, he preferred the Disney color over the others. I managed to keep the name from him til the room was painted. It makes the mother heart in me smile to know the kid’s room is ‘Oh bother, blue.’ I wish I was there to see it again-although, he has covered the walls with Ford posters, skulls, antlers, and a variety of hunting paraphernalia and images.
Of all the things I do not like, I do not like to be a bother. I go out of my way to make sure the way is smooth for others, to make sure I am not causing a roadblock I may imagine. These last weeks, I feel as if I am a bother. I don’t want to ask anyone for anything. I feel like I’m in the way in many areas. I’m afraid to talk to people, I keep repeating myself and it is dull. I want to turn off my phone and avoid people. I see people and sometimes cringe. They need to hear how good mum is doing and I hate to put on that feels good hat. I pour out whenever asked and forget to remember I’m also getting filled. I have gone from ‘Que Sera, Sera’ to ‘it doesn’t matter’. I laugh to myself as I whine about mum striving for normalcy because, I am doing the same. I do my damnedest to make positive her world is free of intrusive particles. Things I know she’d not take care of anyway, but need addressed. She doesn’t really notice much more than me ‘hovering’. She hates I change her fittings and give her shots. She hates I have to drive her places. She insists she wants to manage her own finances, later. We don’t love each other like storybooks and others say we should. We’ll drive for hours without speaking because I don’t enjoy my words being dismissed. It is the way it has always been and I don’t expect it to change.
It has probably been a bit obvious that the projections of my cheerfulness and seeking for good things is a bit forced lately. I know trying to do positive things for me or embracing enjoyment is important. No matter how small. But it is so hard sometimes. I know what I’m experiencing is light in a country full of hurricanes and fires and storm damages and political mayhem. It doesn’t matter how much I rationalize, I’m often sad. I imagine how I could end my existence and know it is entirely illogical to even imagine such actions. Thankfully, I am logical and suicide has never been a viable option. Responsible people keep moving on in spite of a veil of depression. Of all the points of depression, that one is not one to worry about.
Yes, I admit it. I am depressed. I’ve been in the ‘oh bother, blue’ zone for quite a while, am moving into the darker hues. I’m now on the edge of navy. Not quite there, but near. I find myself close to or bursting into tears at the drop of a thought. (I should stop thinking!) I’ve got two very good books I need to finish and I don’t want to. I took a shower and didn’t care what the water in the laundry room did (It only came up a couple of inches and didn’t flood. It wouldn’t have mattered). Mum doesn’t seem to think there is ever a need for a person to feel depression. She’s always fine. I’m not. I sit at the laptop or with my notebook and write and then decide I need to sleep. I almost always remember birthdays or to send notes and treats to people on holidays. I’ve been horrid about that lately. I have friends who are barely making ends meet and torn to bits because of relationships, ones who have family members who are incredibly sick, others who are lost because of the death of a loved one, and this spot I’m in is pretty good.
My mum is alive. She is well loved by many. Mum sounds and acts quite well. She is able to convince people of her good health. Her stats are good, her tumor marker has dropped again, and I am a small albatross. As for me, I can do almost anything without any help at all, I am fairly healthy, and I have a couple of very good friends who keep an eye on me outside of the internet. I have two boys who communicate with me every so often. I exchange texts with my spouse almost every day and sometimes even phone calls now and then. I have a place to sleep, clothes and food and insulin and test strips. Yes, things really are pretty good.
And yet, I want to curl up and cry. Tears are such a silly indulgence. I’ve never been a crier and this is ridiculous! I’m a cynical, selfish woman with a not so high self-esteem, who needs to remember that others come before self. I can continue to go through the motions and eventually those motions will be the pattern again.
(a couple of years ago, I went through a bit of depression and was given horrible drugs. I don’t take those. They were nasty bad things. I have not been at this point in quite a while. It will pass, I know it will.)